The Flame That Isn't Fire
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: CristinaBurke, response to a prompt dealing with selfmutilation. Sometimes it's the strongest people who can't deal. Oneshot. One shots mean one chapter, for those that don't know.


"This is not something I'm prepared to deal with."

"Who asked you to deal with anything? Who invited you to open the door?"

"Why didn't you lock it? You're so obsessed with privacy; I'm amazed that you left the door open. What's this supposed to mean?"

"It's not supposed to mean anything. Why are you still standing here?"

It's the light; it's bothering her eyes. It's too bright, and too harsh, and it turns everything that was somehow even a little romantic into something stupid and painful and ultimately a mistake. But then, he's done that to her before, and it's been appreciated later, but now? Now, she could happily kill him. Now, she'd give anything to erase the disbelieving, pitying look from his face.

"I did not prove you wrong."

"What are you on about now?" He steps back as she pushes past him, but he grabs the top of her arm and squeezes more tightly than he normally would. He's not one to be rough; not even in bed. She can slap his face and he won't fight back. It's part of being raised in the South; women are respected, and he's not about to change that core of himself.

She shakes her arm, but he doesn't let go. "Stop this."

In response, he pulls her to him. It's an embrace she doesn't want; it's comfort she never asked for. She pushes against him and the scalpel clatters to the floor, spinning off on the marble to hit the opposing wall.

He twists her arm back to look at the cuts. They're not deep; she knows better than that. If anyone knows the human anatomy, it's her. And they're not really cuts; they're more scratches, as if a clean cut would be too kind. They're red and inflamed, and he, normally one to look at a situation analytically, suddenly bows his head and drops her arm.

Now, she's wrong-footed; before, she had the advantage of anger. They've had fights like this before. He'll never get down on his knees to beg, but neither will he back down from her inability to open up to him. He's not saying a thing, but she feels the failure keenly. She's not a perfect girlfriend and it never mattered this much before.

"I'm not going to apologize."

"Why would I ask you to do that?" Now, he's sweeping into the kitchen, slamming open the kitchen drawer, pulling out a white soft cylinder of gauze and unrolling it on the counter. She sees the comfort coming, but she doesn't want it. "Don't. I can wrap it myself."

He stops and suddenly crashes his fist on the kitchen counter. "No, you can't. You can't take care of this properly. It's not even about the fact that you can't wrap it tightly enough. You can't doctor yourself."

"This isn't even about the cuts." It's more of a statement than fact, and when he looks up, there are tears in his eyes.

"How can you stand there, all unemotional about this? I have been here, every night for a year, waiting for you to tell me about your day instead of asking about mine. I ask and you parry. I find something of yours and you blow up. And you wonder why I'm angry about your inability to self-soothe, to comfort in a way that's not harmful? Why is everything glass and blood for you? Why does it have to hurt to help?"

Unfamiliar; these tears don't come often. She hates him for making her cry. "I don't know why you need to be let in. What you know about me is sufficient. I'm allowed to have secrets. I'm allowed to keep things to myself."

He pushes at the gauze, most uncharacteristically; she's never seen him not completely poised. "You're not being edgy. You're just showing me how much you hurt inside. Know that I am here, and eventually, I hope you'll realize that."

He goes into the bedroom and slides closed the door, leaving her standing awkwardly, staring at an uncut roll of gauze and forgetting where the scissors are.

Two hours pass. She hears Eugene Foot being turned on; she hears him shift in bed and sigh gustily, and she picks at the scabbing cuts without really feeling the pain. Eventually, she starts to cry – that sort of gasping childlike sobbing that touches the hurt inside; all that expectation that never really comes to fruition, and she hates herself for failing in the one thing more important than surgery.

The door slides open; he comes out and picks her up. She doesn't weigh much; he's always been one to take charge, and she simply curls herself around him, hiding her tearstained face in his shoulder. When he puts her in bed, covers her soundly, and holds her spooned into him, the sobs slow down and he kisses the side of her neck.

"You still win. Just stop doing this shit."

"Okay."

"And give me the scalpel."

"No."

He laughs and she wrinkles her nose in the dark. "Throw out that stupid gauze. It'll just make me look like a sissy."

"It was never about proving me wrong."

"I know."

"And I love you, even though you're prickly and occasionally do stupid things."

"I love you, even though you're nosy and you don't let me have my privacy."

They're silent, and he thinks she's fallen asleep, until –

"I hate fourteen-hour days where little children die."

He tightens his arms around her. "Yeah."

The next morning, he buries the scalpel in the middle of a garbage bag and throws it down the garbage chute.

She never says a word.


End file.
